THREE POEMS by CLEM FLOWERS
I Saw Goody Proctor Kissing The Devil At Inspiration Point
Buckshot dawn ruins the McDonald's tomato thin drapes in this $40 a night room
Even desolation can't help me
I look out into the parking lot, tinged with sage in the cracks of the asphalt & a fine slurry of red dust & bad nights
A tumbleweed is wedged right beneath the back bumper & no matter how strong these early early morning gusts of eastern wind hit, it can't break loose
Mood
I sit back on the bed & see my phone light up.
Text message from Mom
"You OK?"
Goddamn you, tears, not right now; I'm trying to see the screen so I can send her a GIF of an Orange Cassidy thumbs up.
I hear a rooster crow outside.
BLUE DIAMOND IN THE MISERY
for Bluestockings Cooperative Painted words of
hatred
On the well-tended
brick out front
The soap &
brushes come out &
playing music on the boombox &
the community grab a brush or
broom or rag to try to get the
Venom washed away
The Light Stays On
Attack & slander
On anyone
On anybody
On any body
not out of a Norman Rockwell
They make their bodies into new art
The Light Stays On
The world at large
Flings institutionalized bigotry as napalm -
Redlining, gerrymandering,
demanding control over
bodies in a way that's actually out of
1984—
everything
anything
they can to flail
& lash out
to tear the
beauty down
The Light Stays On
For the lonesome, the heartbroke
the ones shunned by those who
said their love was "unconditional,"
the sweethearts who lost their
sweethearts when they opened
the door & lived their truth for
the first time in their lives
The Light Stays On
I mean—flowers
can't bloom
without any Light
Dominique was robbed in the ‘88 Dunk Contest & I will die angry about it
Trae Young takes the ball down the court, eyes darting in 15 different directions, mind whirring as he calculates the likelihood of his pass making it to John Collins or if it might be better to kick it over to Huerter & the clock ticks away & should he just go barreling in to try to at least draw a foul for two but it is LeBron down playing center to give The Brow a chance to up his shooting percentage & the clock ticks away & so there's a high possibility that LeBron could probably body him out into the third row like Bam Bam Bigelow did to Spike Dudley in ECW in 1997 & would probably warrant nothing more than a comment from the the commentary team about the POWER of LeBron & understandably so, Trae is hesitant to run that route & the clock ticks away & now the fans are screaming & the bench players are screaming & the coach is screaming & the clock ticks away & the players on both teams on the floor look worried & the clock ticks away & the paralysis of opportunity sets in & the clock ticks away & the world is spinning like the ball is every time he dribbles & now he's calculating the angles & degrees of the axis the ball falls on & the sweat stings his eyes & the clock ticks away & the clock ticks away & the clock ticks away
& he & Clint Capella set a beautiful pick & roll
& Trae looks overjoyed
& Trae takes a bow to the symphony of boos from the Laker faithful
& I fall into the horde headed out into sticky humid night, trying to make every bit of the $11 popcorn count as I think
maybe I was just projecting
Clem Flowers (they/ them) is a poet, soft-spoken southern transplant, low rent aesthete, pizza man lover, gorgeous monstrosity, & dramatic tenor living in Home of Truth, Utah with their awesome wife & sweet kitty. Hella queer & non-binary poetry editor at Blue River Review, with publication credits including: Olney Magazine, Blue River Review, The Madrigal, Pink Plastic House Journal, Bullshit Lit, Corporeal, Holyflea, Anti-Heroin Chic, & Warning Lines Magazine. Author of chapbooks “Stoked & Thrashing” (Alien Buddha Press), “eating rain//matchstick graveyard” (Alien Buddha Press), & “Two Out of Three Falls” (Bullshit Lit). Found on Twitter: @clem_flowers.